Imagine living in a dorm room with a bunk bed, bathroom and small kitchen. Now imagine you're 30, and you live in this room with your husband.
Our apartment is 16 square meters, which is about 172 square feet. Actually, it's not the smallest apartment that we've seen. When we tell people back home about our apartment, they wonder why on earth we live here. There are two reasons. The first: we can walk to Notre Dame and the Louvre. For that, I would live in a smaller apartment. We might not ever live in as amazing a neighborhood in all our lives, so we're happy to live in a small box just to be here.
The second reason for our tiny apartment is a bit more practical. Imagine trying to find a low priced, fantastically located apartment in Manhattan. Not so easy. Now do it in French!
When Matt and I first arrived in France on September 26, we couldn't understand most of what people were saying. Unfortunately, this caused problems when people were saying these things to us. It's not that we hadn't studied the language, but lessons are a controlled environment. There are ten to twenty new words, and the rest are already mastered points of grammar. Unfortunately, on arrival in France, no one needs you to recite a grocery list or describe your wardrobe. They need you to sign an apartment lease, open a bank account, fill out emigration papers and so on. Countless times, I mentally thanked our Tampa-based French teacher Tina for teaching us the basics of apartment vocabulary - without her, we could have ended up with an apartment sans wc (without a toilet - yes, these apartments exist). Within days of arriving in France, we needed to call people and ask to see their listed apartment. This was, nine out of ten times, a disaster. We would write out what we wanted to say and hope that the person on the other end of the line would respond the way that we anticipated they would, because we had no way of understanding what they were actually saying.
This is the conversation we always hoped for:
Me: Hello, I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment. If it's still available, could we come see it?
Landlord: Yes, it's still available. Can you come tomorrow at 11:00?
Me: Yes! What is the exact address?
LL: 8 rue du Temple. That's on Metro Temple.
Me: Great, thank you! See you tomorrow at 11!
LL: Ok, see you then!
This is a representation of the conversations that we usually ended up having instead:
Me: Hello, I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment. If it's still available, could we come see it?
LL: What? Who is this?
Me (mildly panicked): Hello. I found your ad on Craigslist for an apartment? If it's still available, could we come see it?
LL: No, I already rented it.
Me: Can we come see it tomorrow?
LL: No, it's already rented out, how did you get this number?
Me: Ok, could we come see it tomorrow?
LL: No! It's already rented!
Me: (Still not understanding, but noticing that the person on the other end of the line seemed angry) Ummmmm..........errrrr........................ Okay, thanks! BYE!!!!!!!!!!! (hang up in terror)
Thankfully, we eventually found an apartment using the internet, because the phone is still a disaster.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
My photos
Jen Stephenson's photostream on Flickr.
Now you can see some of my photos from our life in Paris!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Small Things
Occasionally, I panic. About everything.
Sometimes, when the practical part of me comes out of hiding, I think to myself, "My God, what have I done? What are we doing here? Why did I make Matt come here, we have no future job prospects! What will we do next year? We need careers and 401Ks and pensions! This was so irresponsible!" In these moments of terror, I look on Facebook at photos of my friends with their beautiful homes, successful office parties, and sometimes, their children. Then I look at my 172 square foot apartment.
And then a seven year old French student asks to hold my hand as we walk to our classroom after recess. Carrying books, a scarf, my coat and my purse, all I can offer her is my pinky.
"I'm holding Jen's little finger!" She laughs and tells her friends, who appear legitimately jealous, checking to see if I have any other fingers free.
They ask me what the USA is like. Do we have any of the same stores? Do kids have the same toys? Is it nice there? Have I been to New York? They tell me that some day they hope to visit the USA. They want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge. The want to visit the White House and the Grand Canyon. They ask if I like France. Are the people nice? Do I like the food? Although the kids don't speak English, and I don't always understand their French, they always try to talk to me whenever they have the chance. In these little daily interactions, I'm coming to appreciate why we're here.
And then I don't worry so much about my lack of career.
Sometimes, when the practical part of me comes out of hiding, I think to myself, "My God, what have I done? What are we doing here? Why did I make Matt come here, we have no future job prospects! What will we do next year? We need careers and 401Ks and pensions! This was so irresponsible!" In these moments of terror, I look on Facebook at photos of my friends with their beautiful homes, successful office parties, and sometimes, their children. Then I look at my 172 square foot apartment.
And then a seven year old French student asks to hold my hand as we walk to our classroom after recess. Carrying books, a scarf, my coat and my purse, all I can offer her is my pinky.
"I'm holding Jen's little finger!" She laughs and tells her friends, who appear legitimately jealous, checking to see if I have any other fingers free.
They ask me what the USA is like. Do we have any of the same stores? Do kids have the same toys? Is it nice there? Have I been to New York? They tell me that some day they hope to visit the USA. They want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge. The want to visit the White House and the Grand Canyon. They ask if I like France. Are the people nice? Do I like the food? Although the kids don't speak English, and I don't always understand their French, they always try to talk to me whenever they have the chance. In these little daily interactions, I'm coming to appreciate why we're here.
And then I don't worry so much about my lack of career.
Monday, December 12, 2011
The search for French Santa
For the past few weeks, I've been on a Santa hunt. I was curious: Would the French version of Santa - Père Noël - be in possession of the proverbial 'bowl full of jelly' stomach? Or would French Santa, represented in a culture that does not struggle with obesity, be trim and fit?
In the weeks approaching Christmas, I came across various shop window displays including Santa, however these only added to my curiosity over Kris Kringle's physique, as he was often depicted in contradicting styles. One store window would show his characteristic rosy cheeks and bulging tummy, the next would show a tall, lean man in red. Unable to find a uniform characterization of Santa, I decided that to have my answer, I would have to seek out the real Santa - or at least the one who makes appearances at Christmas markets.
One evening while walking around, Matt and I stumbled upon the Champs Elysees Christmas Market, littered with various tents of vendors selling chocolates, beverages, hats, french fries and Christmas ornaments, and complete with a Carousel and Ferris Wheel. Noticing a strong cable lining the tree tops, we followed it to see where it would lead. Finally reaching the end of the cable, we came upon a sign claiming that Santa and his sleigh would fly through the sky every half an hour until 8pm. Unfortunately, we read the sign at 8:45pm. French Santa had eluded me.
The next week, we decided to attend the Christmas market in the 6th arrondissement, near the famous Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, a place that Hemingway once called home. Besides being in one of my favorite parts of the city, this particular Christmas market was rumored to be the residing place of Parisian Santa, so of course, we had to go. Meandering down the cobblestone streets, we saw boutiques filled with Christmas trees, ornaments, and winter clothing alongside cafes with coffee, tea and hot chocolate. As always, we also saw the ever-present Starbucks. The streets were filled with tourists and Parisians alike, many of them doing some Christmas shopping, or just going for a stroll along the decorated streets. After taking in the beauty of the market for an hour, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment that French Santa had evaded me once again. Père Noël was turning out to be a wily old man.
Day after Santa-less day, I had all but lost hope. I decided that I should stop focusing on Santa and move on. After all, it's only Santa, and I am an adult. As a result, Matt and I decided to spend a day in the Medieval town of Provins, about an hour and a half train ride to the south-east of Paris.
Well known during the Middle ages as a fair town - a designated fortified city where merchants from around Europe would gather to sell their wares - Provins is home to a 12th century castle, and many surviving examples of Medieval architecture in the form of churches, houses, shops and taverns. After spending an hour in the Castle, and then walking the ancient streets and having a Medieval lunch, I had all but forgotten my Santa quest as we entered the Christmas market of the medieval town. While glancing around at the various cakes and candles for sale, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. There he was! French Santa! He was sitting in a booth, having his photo taken with a small child on his lap. As the child's mother thanked Santa, and the child got up, I gaped at the red man: he was decidedly not fat. French Santa was thin! Finally, I had my answer.
Apparently, I must have stared too long. Suddenly, French Santa spoke:
"You can come sit over here," he said, patting his thigh.
"Oh, no thank you," I laughed awkwardly.
"No, it's okay, women can have their photo taken with Santa, too," he said with a smile.
I laughed, politely declined, and walked away.
It was confirmed. I had, without a doubt, met the real French Santa Claus.
In the weeks approaching Christmas, I came across various shop window displays including Santa, however these only added to my curiosity over Kris Kringle's physique, as he was often depicted in contradicting styles. One store window would show his characteristic rosy cheeks and bulging tummy, the next would show a tall, lean man in red. Unable to find a uniform characterization of Santa, I decided that to have my answer, I would have to seek out the real Santa - or at least the one who makes appearances at Christmas markets.
One evening while walking around, Matt and I stumbled upon the Champs Elysees Christmas Market, littered with various tents of vendors selling chocolates, beverages, hats, french fries and Christmas ornaments, and complete with a Carousel and Ferris Wheel. Noticing a strong cable lining the tree tops, we followed it to see where it would lead. Finally reaching the end of the cable, we came upon a sign claiming that Santa and his sleigh would fly through the sky every half an hour until 8pm. Unfortunately, we read the sign at 8:45pm. French Santa had eluded me.
The next week, we decided to attend the Christmas market in the 6th arrondissement, near the famous Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, a place that Hemingway once called home. Besides being in one of my favorite parts of the city, this particular Christmas market was rumored to be the residing place of Parisian Santa, so of course, we had to go. Meandering down the cobblestone streets, we saw boutiques filled with Christmas trees, ornaments, and winter clothing alongside cafes with coffee, tea and hot chocolate. As always, we also saw the ever-present Starbucks. The streets were filled with tourists and Parisians alike, many of them doing some Christmas shopping, or just going for a stroll along the decorated streets. After taking in the beauty of the market for an hour, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment that French Santa had evaded me once again. Père Noël was turning out to be a wily old man.
Day after Santa-less day, I had all but lost hope. I decided that I should stop focusing on Santa and move on. After all, it's only Santa, and I am an adult. As a result, Matt and I decided to spend a day in the Medieval town of Provins, about an hour and a half train ride to the south-east of Paris.
Well known during the Middle ages as a fair town - a designated fortified city where merchants from around Europe would gather to sell their wares - Provins is home to a 12th century castle, and many surviving examples of Medieval architecture in the form of churches, houses, shops and taverns. After spending an hour in the Castle, and then walking the ancient streets and having a Medieval lunch, I had all but forgotten my Santa quest as we entered the Christmas market of the medieval town. While glancing around at the various cakes and candles for sale, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. There he was! French Santa! He was sitting in a booth, having his photo taken with a small child on his lap. As the child's mother thanked Santa, and the child got up, I gaped at the red man: he was decidedly not fat. French Santa was thin! Finally, I had my answer.
Apparently, I must have stared too long. Suddenly, French Santa spoke:
"You can come sit over here," he said, patting his thigh.
"Oh, no thank you," I laughed awkwardly.
"No, it's okay, women can have their photo taken with Santa, too," he said with a smile.
I laughed, politely declined, and walked away.
It was confirmed. I had, without a doubt, met the real French Santa Claus.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Cultural Refinement
In my on-going adjustment to French culture, my interactions with children have been the most positive. I'm a little surprised at this, because I'm the first person in the world to admit that children can be insufferable. They are, among other things, selfish, belligerent, and rude.
I'd like to pause and discuss the meaning of the word "rude". In saying that children are rude, I was, of course, referring the the fact that children say hurtful, disrespectful things at least once a day. But it's the secondary meaning of "rude" that I've come to appreciate here in France: without culture, learning or refinement. With this meaning in mind, it is the rudeness of children that make them open to learning, and to interacting with me without judgement.
We often think of refinement as the ability to judge a good wine or a superb taste in fine leather goods. This is not refinement. Refinement is what makes us socially adept within our culture. Refinement gives us the ability to navigate the social world, obtaining what we want, making connections with those we need. At birth, all humans are the same. People are people in every corner of the world. What makes us different as we grow is how our culture affects us. Culture teaches us which traits are valued, and which are undesirable. Additionally, culture gives us social tools to mask our less-than-optimal characteristics. Unfortunately for those of us trying to acclimate to a new environment, not only do all of the different cultures of the world have different social customs for masking bad qualities; they have different opinions on which qualities are bad. It is through the process of refinement that we are able to internalize our society's ideals of good and bad traits, as well as learn to optimize ourselves. Here in France, without my language, culture, profession, friends and family, I am not refined. As it turns out, I have a lot in common with all of those selfish, belligerent and rude children.
Being rude, selfish and belligerent are part of human nature. These characteristics do not vanish in adulthood, they simply become hidden away in a person's undisclosed self. Qualities such as these, which are tucked away from the world, can not be openly addressed. Thus, while children can be so insufferable, it is through their very outward opinionated declarations that they are able to be challenged and thus have the opportunity to become better people.
And so it is that I enjoy the children of France so much more than the adults: when they have an assumption about me, they state it matter-of-factly. I rebut it, and they are able to draw their own conclusions. Whatever their decision, I appreciate being given the opportunity to candidly discuss my perspective. It's quite rare that an adult, in any part of the world, will give you that opportunity.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Comfort Ye
Tonight we had our church choir's Christmas concert at the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache (Yes, not only did Lionel accept my ridiculous audition, he even gave me a few solos!). Among other things, we sang part one of Handel's Messiah.
After the orchestra prelude, the tenor soloist begins the sung portion of the Messiah with "Comfort Ye". I've always liked this piece, and I was excited to hear Stephane, the church's cantor, sing it. As soon as he began to sing, I felt like I was hearing the words "Comfort Ye" for the first time in my entire life, which was strange because, as Stephane sang it, they were more like "Confahrt Yeae". Suddenly, as his voice filled the massive cathedral, my eyes started to well up.
Life in another country can be difficult. Separated from people by a language barrier, it is simply impossible to speak as much as is desired, or is necessary, to function socially. Increasingly, you withdraw into yourself because it is too difficult to attempt to communicate with others. In addition, there is an enormous amount of confusing paperwork at every turn, and the future is frustratingly uncertain. Without knowing how to do practically everything in a new environment, and being without the ability to ask anyone, you start to doubt your own abilities, and wonder if everyone you meet views you as incompetent. After all, how is it that you don't know how to write a check or take the bus? You're not from Mars, after all, and these things do exist in your home country. To top it off, it's easy to become insecure about every facet of yourself as people scrutinize you, your language, and your culture. Even the most kind and well-meaning people can make you feel bad without intending to, simply by making assumptions about you or your values based on shows like the Simpsons, or political decisions made by US government officials who were elected before your birth.
As I sat in the choir stall and let Stephane's beautiful voice wash over me, I finally understood the words "Comfort Ye." Seek solace where you can find it, because it's little things that make the big things possible. Through my participation in the choir, I am able to remind myself weekly that I am, in fact, not incompetent. Although I often have no idea what people are saying, as soon as we begin to sing, I am absolutely sure of myself. Sitting there, I knew that whether it be in France, the USA, Cambodia or Costa Rica, what I've learned about singing in my home country will not be ridiculed or torn apart, because it is solid. I can take my musical training with me anywhere, and it will translate perfectly. In the moments of that tenor solo, I was comforted by the knowledge that my musicianship - my American musicianship - is equally appreciated in France as at home, and I am not so different from my French neighbors after all.
After the orchestra prelude, the tenor soloist begins the sung portion of the Messiah with "Comfort Ye". I've always liked this piece, and I was excited to hear Stephane, the church's cantor, sing it. As soon as he began to sing, I felt like I was hearing the words "Comfort Ye" for the first time in my entire life, which was strange because, as Stephane sang it, they were more like "Confahrt Yeae". Suddenly, as his voice filled the massive cathedral, my eyes started to well up.
Life in another country can be difficult. Separated from people by a language barrier, it is simply impossible to speak as much as is desired, or is necessary, to function socially. Increasingly, you withdraw into yourself because it is too difficult to attempt to communicate with others. In addition, there is an enormous amount of confusing paperwork at every turn, and the future is frustratingly uncertain. Without knowing how to do practically everything in a new environment, and being without the ability to ask anyone, you start to doubt your own abilities, and wonder if everyone you meet views you as incompetent. After all, how is it that you don't know how to write a check or take the bus? You're not from Mars, after all, and these things do exist in your home country. To top it off, it's easy to become insecure about every facet of yourself as people scrutinize you, your language, and your culture. Even the most kind and well-meaning people can make you feel bad without intending to, simply by making assumptions about you or your values based on shows like the Simpsons, or political decisions made by US government officials who were elected before your birth.
As I sat in the choir stall and let Stephane's beautiful voice wash over me, I finally understood the words "Comfort Ye." Seek solace where you can find it, because it's little things that make the big things possible. Through my participation in the choir, I am able to remind myself weekly that I am, in fact, not incompetent. Although I often have no idea what people are saying, as soon as we begin to sing, I am absolutely sure of myself. Sitting there, I knew that whether it be in France, the USA, Cambodia or Costa Rica, what I've learned about singing in my home country will not be ridiculed or torn apart, because it is solid. I can take my musical training with me anywhere, and it will translate perfectly. In the moments of that tenor solo, I was comforted by the knowledge that my musicianship - my American musicianship - is equally appreciated in France as at home, and I am not so different from my French neighbors after all.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Learning French
When I auditioned for the Church choir that I sing with (The Choir of the Cathedral of Saint-Eustache), I had been in France for three weeks, and my French was atrocious. It's not great now, but back then I was unable to ascertain most of what people were saying, and I had no way to respond appropriately to what little I could understand. As a result, my default response was always "Okay" or "I don't know". Despite this, I really wanted to be part of a choir, so I braved the francophone sea and auditioned. For whatever reason, I brought a recorder with me, and just listened to it today. It's a wonder I was accepted into the choir at all, as this is what happened:
Lionel (The choir director): Ok, we'll do some vocalizes, then you can sing a song that you've prepared, then we'll do a little sight reading, ok?
Me: Ok.
L: First, just a few questions. Do you know your voice part?
Me: Soprano.
L: Can you sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok, you're not sure. Can you read music?
Me: Umm, I don't know.
L: Ok, well... have you ever been in a choir before?
Me: Ummm....I don't know? (If I were Lionel, I would have laughed here. Then again, maybe he truly believed that it was possible for me to have been in a choir and not known about it?)
L: Ok. (Looking at me doubtfully, thinking I do NOT need a person in my choir who has never sung before and doesn't speak French) So what song do you have? Did you bring a song?
Me: I don't know.
L (Looks at me quizzically, then at the book of French Art Song that I brought with me): Is it in there?
Me: Oh, yes. It's Beau Soir by Debussy, is that ok?
L: Yes, of course. I don't have the music, can I look at yours? Do you know it by heart?
Me: No.
L: Ok, well can I read out of the book? You can stand behind me.
Me: Oh, it's ok, I can sing it from over here, I memorized it.
L: Oh, Ok...
Me: So, should we start with the song then?
L: No, we'll do some vocalizes first.
.....................Vocalizes and Song...................
During my singing he looked confused. Probably because I obviously have a lot of musical experience but told him that I didn't know if I had ever been in a choir.
L: Well, that was good, so you do sing; you've obviously studied voice.
Me (This was probably the first thing that he said that I really understood): Oh yes, I have a Masters in voice.
L (I wish I could describe his face. It was a mix of surprise, exasperation and bemusement): Okay, well that's good. But you're not sure if you can sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok. (Sigh) Well, we'll just try.
..............sight reading............
L: Ok, well you can sight read, since you just read through that piece perfectly.
Me: Yes, I'm decent at sight-reading. (I was able to say this because I realized that the word he kept saying - dechiffrer - meant sight-reading, so I just repeated it. Meanwhile he was probably thinking Why did she say she didn't know if she could sightread and then tell me she's pretty good at it?
After giving me a strange look that conveyed the thought What is this person doing here? I hope this is a good idea, he smiled and told me that he would love to have me in the choir.
Lionel (The choir director): Ok, we'll do some vocalizes, then you can sing a song that you've prepared, then we'll do a little sight reading, ok?
Me: Ok.
L: First, just a few questions. Do you know your voice part?
Me: Soprano.
L: Can you sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok, you're not sure. Can you read music?
Me: Umm, I don't know.
L: Ok, well... have you ever been in a choir before?
Me: Ummm....I don't know? (If I were Lionel, I would have laughed here. Then again, maybe he truly believed that it was possible for me to have been in a choir and not known about it?)
L: Ok. (Looking at me doubtfully, thinking I do NOT need a person in my choir who has never sung before and doesn't speak French) So what song do you have? Did you bring a song?
Me: I don't know.
L (Looks at me quizzically, then at the book of French Art Song that I brought with me): Is it in there?
Me: Oh, yes. It's Beau Soir by Debussy, is that ok?
L: Yes, of course. I don't have the music, can I look at yours? Do you know it by heart?
Me: No.
L: Ok, well can I read out of the book? You can stand behind me.
Me: Oh, it's ok, I can sing it from over here, I memorized it.
L: Oh, Ok...
Me: So, should we start with the song then?
L: No, we'll do some vocalizes first.
.....................Vocalizes and Song...................
During my singing he looked confused. Probably because I obviously have a lot of musical experience but told him that I didn't know if I had ever been in a choir.
L: Well, that was good, so you do sing; you've obviously studied voice.
Me (This was probably the first thing that he said that I really understood): Oh yes, I have a Masters in voice.
L (I wish I could describe his face. It was a mix of surprise, exasperation and bemusement): Okay, well that's good. But you're not sure if you can sight-read?
Me: I don't know.
L: Ok. (Sigh) Well, we'll just try.
..............sight reading............
L: Ok, well you can sight read, since you just read through that piece perfectly.
Me: Yes, I'm decent at sight-reading. (I was able to say this because I realized that the word he kept saying - dechiffrer - meant sight-reading, so I just repeated it. Meanwhile he was probably thinking Why did she say she didn't know if she could sightread and then tell me she's pretty good at it?
After giving me a strange look that conveyed the thought What is this person doing here? I hope this is a good idea, he smiled and told me that he would love to have me in the choir.
The Louvre
The Mona Lisa is small.
The Winged Victory appears to be at the helm of a stone ship (which is a poor boat design, if you ask me).
The Venus de Milo has no arms! (Ok, no big surprise there).
Taken together, these three iconic pieces of art - the three pieces which, in my opinion, cause the Louvre to have an estimated 65,000 visitors per day - are underwhelming. I'm not an art historian; this could be part of the problem. But for me, seeing a tiny painting behind bullet proof glass and fifty people swarming around it with their iPhones and digital cameras is not a thrill.
In my opinion, the best part of the Louvre is often overlooked: It's a royal palace! The museum of the Louvre is located inside the Palace of the Louvre, which was built during the Medieval era and has had a series of renovations and additions since the 1600s. Until 1682, the Palais du Louvre was the home of the Monarchs of France, including several Louis', Catherine de' Medici, and Charles V. What does all of this mean to museum goers? It means that when you walk around the art galleries, don't just look at the paintings and sculptures: Look at the room you're in!. Many of the ceilings are gold plated and feature beautiful fresco and portraits. The floors are all marble tile, and many of the doorways, support columns and fireplaces are beautifully engraved. Walking through this magnificent palace, one can just imagine the rage that 18th century French Revolutionaries must have felt seeing the splendor of the palace, yet having no food to eat!
The most fabulous of all of the palace are the apartments of Napoleon III, who has the distinct place in French history of being the first elected President while simultaneously being the last sovereign monarch. I'm still trying to figure out how that worked, exactly. Napoleon III's apartments include the royal throne room, bedchamber, several halls and salons for entertaining, and a grand dining room. Let me just say, Napoleon III's dining room table is bigger than my entire apartment. In all of the rooms, there are beautifully carved pieces of furniture, ornately crafted tapestries and carpets, beautifully made drapes and bed linens, and, oh yeah, a solid gold ceiling.
This trip to the Louvre was actually my third, but I had never seen these apartments. On my other trips to the museum, I was too drained after my visit to the Mona Lisa wing to do anything but go outside and ride one of the billions of merry-go-rounds the city spontaneously sets up for no reason (True). My advice to visitors: Know what you'd like to see before you get there. If you're reading this, you've already somewhat mastered the internet, so you can look up which pieces are held at the Louvre, and what their galleries contain. There are three museum wings: Denon, Sully, and Richelieu. Denon has the Mona Lisa, Sully has Napoleon III"s apartment, and Richelieu has the remnants of the Louvre as a medieval castle - you can go into the basement and walk the length of the 13th century moat and see some ruins of the old dungeon. The museum is enormous, and it would be impossible to view everything, even if you went there every day for a month. Know what you want to see before you go, that way you don't miss out on anything! Also, if you have the opportunity, the museum is free the first Sunday of every month, so, obviously, that's when we decided to make our appearance.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Politically Incorrect France
The French are the opposite of politically correct. Basically, they call 'em like they see 'em. As an American, it can be shocking and uncomfortable. Even writing this blog post makes me feel a little uneasy. In France, people of African heritage are just "Black" (incidentally, they use the English word black - to use the french word 'noir' is a faux pas). Arabic people are "Arab" - something that makes me uncomfortable, and a British girl told me that to call someone an "Arab" in England would land you in jail, or force you to pay a hefty fine. Jewish People are "Jews"; Asian people are "Oriental". It doesn't just extend to the color of someone's skin, either. Senior Citizen translates to "old people"; if a student in school is acting silly or inappropriate, the teacher will say, "Stop being stupid" or "Stop all of this stupidity!" rather than something like, "Ok, let's settle down!". Native American or First Peoples becomes "Indians", and so on. At first, all of this can be jarring. In America, we distance ourselves from such social constructs as race and economic standing. We don't talk about it, and when we do, it is behind the veil of terms that have been deemed appropriate. If possible, we avoid mentioning race at all costs. This not being the case in France, it can seem a bit strange to someone new to France. For example, a few weeks ago I went to choir rehearsal early to work on a duet that I am singing for Christmas eve.
"Je ne sais pas qui va chanter cette morceaux avec toi." - "I don't know who will sing this piece with you." Lionel the choir director told me. "I think I will ask Joscylene," he continued, "because she has sung it before."
"Which one is Joscylene?" I asked.
"The Black one." He responded.
I was a little shocked. In the States, we would have had an exchange like this:
Me: "Who is Joscylene?"
Lionel: "She's the one with dark brown hair and brown eyes, she's about yay high, she wears a red coat."
Me: "Oh, the one with glasses?"
Lionel: "No, she doesn't have glasses. She usually comes in about five minutes late, she has a iphone, her husband's name is Bill."
Me: (figuring out who Joscylene is) "Oh yes, the one with the iphone. Ok, I know her now."
It's ridiculous. Joscylene is the only non white female in choir, yet in the USA we would be reluctant to say it. Which brings me to my second point about the French lack of political correctness.
In general, the French are much less racist than Americans. Don't get me wrong, they have plenty of prejudices, it's simply that racism isn't really one of them, and certainly not to the extent that it is a problem in the United States. For example, anyone who has either been a teacher, teacher's assistant, or just remembers high school knows that when students are given a choice, they ALWAYS sit together in racially segregated groups. Of course there are exceptions, there always are. But this is a phenomenon that has been well recorded in the States, so much so that there was a book entitled, "Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?" by psychologist Beverly Daniel Tatum. In French schools, this is simply not the case. The schools that I work at have approximately an equal number of White, Black, and Arabic children, with a few Asian and a few South American kids in each grade. I have watched them at recess and during their free time in class, and it appears that they are seemingly unaware of race as a determinant in which kids are appropriate for them to befriend.
The fact that the French language uses what Americans view as offensive language to refer to racial groups might actually be an indication that French society, as a whole, is less racist than American society. By openly discussing race, the French indicate that they have no reservations about doing so, or about acknowledging race in general. It's possible that we as Americans distance ourselves from race discussions because we have more privately held beliefs about race than the French do, who seem to hold no taboos whatsoever about having these discussions.
Like a lot of things in my life as a foreigner, I've found that what seemed uncomfortable, scary or offensive at first is actually just a result of different ways of thinking and conceptualizing the world. I'm certainly not advocating that we start using offensive terms for different groups of people, but maybe if we were able to openly discuss things - why don't we talk about race? Why aren't different groups of people able to find more common ground? - we wouldn't need to constantly invent new language to distance ourselves from our societal problems. Maybe instead of making up new words, we could actually just solve our problems instead.
"Je ne sais pas qui va chanter cette morceaux avec toi." - "I don't know who will sing this piece with you." Lionel the choir director told me. "I think I will ask Joscylene," he continued, "because she has sung it before."
"Which one is Joscylene?" I asked.
"The Black one." He responded.
I was a little shocked. In the States, we would have had an exchange like this:
Me: "Who is Joscylene?"
Lionel: "She's the one with dark brown hair and brown eyes, she's about yay high, she wears a red coat."
Me: "Oh, the one with glasses?"
Lionel: "No, she doesn't have glasses. She usually comes in about five minutes late, she has a iphone, her husband's name is Bill."
Me: (figuring out who Joscylene is) "Oh yes, the one with the iphone. Ok, I know her now."
It's ridiculous. Joscylene is the only non white female in choir, yet in the USA we would be reluctant to say it. Which brings me to my second point about the French lack of political correctness.
In general, the French are much less racist than Americans. Don't get me wrong, they have plenty of prejudices, it's simply that racism isn't really one of them, and certainly not to the extent that it is a problem in the United States. For example, anyone who has either been a teacher, teacher's assistant, or just remembers high school knows that when students are given a choice, they ALWAYS sit together in racially segregated groups. Of course there are exceptions, there always are. But this is a phenomenon that has been well recorded in the States, so much so that there was a book entitled, "Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?" by psychologist Beverly Daniel Tatum. In French schools, this is simply not the case. The schools that I work at have approximately an equal number of White, Black, and Arabic children, with a few Asian and a few South American kids in each grade. I have watched them at recess and during their free time in class, and it appears that they are seemingly unaware of race as a determinant in which kids are appropriate for them to befriend.
The fact that the French language uses what Americans view as offensive language to refer to racial groups might actually be an indication that French society, as a whole, is less racist than American society. By openly discussing race, the French indicate that they have no reservations about doing so, or about acknowledging race in general. It's possible that we as Americans distance ourselves from race discussions because we have more privately held beliefs about race than the French do, who seem to hold no taboos whatsoever about having these discussions.
Like a lot of things in my life as a foreigner, I've found that what seemed uncomfortable, scary or offensive at first is actually just a result of different ways of thinking and conceptualizing the world. I'm certainly not advocating that we start using offensive terms for different groups of people, but maybe if we were able to openly discuss things - why don't we talk about race? Why aren't different groups of people able to find more common ground? - we wouldn't need to constantly invent new language to distance ourselves from our societal problems. Maybe instead of making up new words, we could actually just solve our problems instead.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
I speak American
There are few times that I am truly offended. Yesterday was one of them.
On Friday evenings, I tutor a 15-year-old girl named Angela in English. Although Angela has been studying English in school for the past five years, she has not learned the past tense nor the future, and her vocabulary is quite limited. Despite this, she catches on rather quickly, and has improved significantly in the few weeks that we've been working together. Because of her rapid progress, I asked her about her English class at school. After all, if she is smart enough to catch on to new concepts as quickly as I have witnessed, why doesn't she know more grammar and vocabulary from her school course?
"Well," She told me in French, "This week we worked on present tense sentences with verbs that require prepositions, such as 'listen to', 'wake up', 'fall down', etc."
Okay, well those are useful and she already seems to have mastered them, so at least I'm sticking to her curriculum with my lessons, I thought.
"Oh, also, " she continued, "Our teacher gave us this." She handed me a sheet of paper. Looking it over, I saw that it explained the differences in spelling between UK English and American English - things like theatre vs. theater, organise vs. organize, etc.
"Yes, this is right," I told her. I try to teach the kids here English from the UK because the chances are that they might not ever make it to the USA, but most of them will go to the UK at some point. "We also have a lot of different words," I explained. "Because I'm American, I might teach you things that are a little different, but it's probably better if you do what you're learning in school if we come across something I teach you that you've already learned differently."
"Okay. Oh, yeah," She said as she flipped the paper over, revealing two lists she had hand-written. "Our teacher gave us this list of some different words between English and American English."
As I looked at the list, I was excited to see some differences between American English and UK English. I never realized until I lived in France how many different words and expressions we have. The first thing on the list was "cinema" for the English and "movies" for us. Yeah, that's a good one, I thought. Quickly, the smile faded from my face.
"Your teacher had you write this down?" I exclaimed.
"Yes." Angela replied.
"But this is wrong!" I said, staring at the list. "These are just so wrong! I wish I had my camera, I would take a photo of this list and show everyone I know in the States that French kids are being taught that we are idiots!"
Angela laughed. I finally tore my eyes away from her list, handed it back to her, and we began the lesson. In writing this, I realize that I never explained to her why I was upset. She must have just thought I was upset that the students had been taught incorrect words. The following is the list, as I can remember it.
On Friday evenings, I tutor a 15-year-old girl named Angela in English. Although Angela has been studying English in school for the past five years, she has not learned the past tense nor the future, and her vocabulary is quite limited. Despite this, she catches on rather quickly, and has improved significantly in the few weeks that we've been working together. Because of her rapid progress, I asked her about her English class at school. After all, if she is smart enough to catch on to new concepts as quickly as I have witnessed, why doesn't she know more grammar and vocabulary from her school course?
"Well," She told me in French, "This week we worked on present tense sentences with verbs that require prepositions, such as 'listen to', 'wake up', 'fall down', etc."
Okay, well those are useful and she already seems to have mastered them, so at least I'm sticking to her curriculum with my lessons, I thought.
"Oh, also, " she continued, "Our teacher gave us this." She handed me a sheet of paper. Looking it over, I saw that it explained the differences in spelling between UK English and American English - things like theatre vs. theater, organise vs. organize, etc.
"Yes, this is right," I told her. I try to teach the kids here English from the UK because the chances are that they might not ever make it to the USA, but most of them will go to the UK at some point. "We also have a lot of different words," I explained. "Because I'm American, I might teach you things that are a little different, but it's probably better if you do what you're learning in school if we come across something I teach you that you've already learned differently."
"Okay. Oh, yeah," She said as she flipped the paper over, revealing two lists she had hand-written. "Our teacher gave us this list of some different words between English and American English."
As I looked at the list, I was excited to see some differences between American English and UK English. I never realized until I lived in France how many different words and expressions we have. The first thing on the list was "cinema" for the English and "movies" for us. Yeah, that's a good one, I thought. Quickly, the smile faded from my face.
"Your teacher had you write this down?" I exclaimed.
"Yes." Angela replied.
"But this is wrong!" I said, staring at the list. "These are just so wrong! I wish I had my camera, I would take a photo of this list and show everyone I know in the States that French kids are being taught that we are idiots!"
Angela laughed. I finally tore my eyes away from her list, handed it back to her, and we began the lesson. In writing this, I realize that I never explained to her why I was upset. She must have just thought I was upset that the students had been taught incorrect words. The following is the list, as I can remember it.
English American
cinema movies
night nite
doughnut donut
going to gonna
want to wanna
see you cya
A few minutes into the lesson, I just couldn't resist talking about the list again.
"Why are the titles just "English" and "American"? Those are just adjectives without a noun!" At this point, I was just trying to find anything wrong with what the teacher had told them.
"Non, non," She replied, "Those are the names of the different languages," she told me.
"English and American?" I replied, faintly sensing my jaw touch the floor. "American is not a language."
"It's not?" She asked innocently.
I took a breath, reminding myself that my issue is not with Angela but with her teacher, who apparently studied English at the prestigious Text Message University. "No, in the US we speak English. We call it American Standard English, the 'American Standard' referring to the dialect. But it is English, just like how in Quebec they speak French. Even though it is different than your French, it is still French."
"Oh," She nodded. French people can all relate to Quebec for some reason.
As the saying goes, "You learn something new everyday." All my life I thought I spoke English!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The helpful man I almost yelled at
Today, on my way to a useless pedagogical meeting (of which there are many), I got lost in a Parisian suburb called Bobigny. Standing on a busy street corner, I stared in all directions, wondering where to go. Suddenly a tow truck honked at me. I looked up, and the driver was gesticulating to me to cross the street. He made a face like "What are you doing, I'm waiting for you to cross." Confused, angered, and still lost, I shrugged at him, crossed the street, and thought about making an obscene gesture. Honestly, it wasn't my good nature that prevented me from doing it, it's that in France the American single finger salute is not acknowledged as having meaning, and I don't know what they use instead. Defeated (and still lost) I glared at him from across the street. He glared back. I raised my hands and shrugged my shoulders in a "what?!" gesture, which he returned to me. I then gave up on him and opened the book where I had scribbled directions.
"Perdu?" - "Lost?" The man yelled at me across the street from his truck window.
"Oui!" I yelled back, making a sad face. Suddenly, the portly middle aged man opened his cab door, ran across three lanes of traffic and asked where I was trying to go. After I explained to him, he pointed me in the right direction, told me to be careful crossing the rest of the streets, and bid me "bye bye" in (possibly) his best English.
I walked down the street a ways, around a rotary, and saw the man pass me with a car in tow and a passenger. He slowed down, opened his pasenger's window and yelled across her to tell me that I was on the right road.
"Merci beaucoup!" I smiled and gave the thumbs up sign. Well, he must be the friendliest person in France! I decided. When I had just about reached the last street that I needed to turn onto, the man was returning, having dropped off his passenger and her car. Stopping in the middle of traffic, he yelled to me "Take a left here!" and pointed down the street.
"Thank you!!" I yelled and waved, laughing to myself, and feeling thankful that someone was indeed friendly around here.
The moral of the story is you never know who is going to be friendly, so don't flip anyone off.
"Perdu?" - "Lost?" The man yelled at me across the street from his truck window.
"Oui!" I yelled back, making a sad face. Suddenly, the portly middle aged man opened his cab door, ran across three lanes of traffic and asked where I was trying to go. After I explained to him, he pointed me in the right direction, told me to be careful crossing the rest of the streets, and bid me "bye bye" in (possibly) his best English.
I walked down the street a ways, around a rotary, and saw the man pass me with a car in tow and a passenger. He slowed down, opened his pasenger's window and yelled across her to tell me that I was on the right road.
"Merci beaucoup!" I smiled and gave the thumbs up sign. Well, he must be the friendliest person in France! I decided. When I had just about reached the last street that I needed to turn onto, the man was returning, having dropped off his passenger and her car. Stopping in the middle of traffic, he yelled to me "Take a left here!" and pointed down the street.
"Thank you!!" I yelled and waved, laughing to myself, and feeling thankful that someone was indeed friendly around here.
The moral of the story is you never know who is going to be friendly, so don't flip anyone off.
It's hard to acknowledge that your own preferences are culturally informed
Like many languages, French has two ways to address someone as "you". The formal is "vous" and the informal is "tu". As an English speaker, I make no distinction between tu and vous. Theoretically, I obviously understand the concept; I am able to use them at appropriate times. If a three year old, however, accidentally (or purposefully) calls me tu, I don't care. Not in the slightest. Even if someone called me tu to be purposefully insulting, I wouldn't care. I have been asked by everyone I work with within the first three minutes of meeting them if it is okay that we "tutoyer" - use tu instead of vous. "Bien sur" (Of course) I respond. For them, it is a legitimate question. For me, I laugh a little inside every time. It's not that I think they are ridiculous, its simply that I have no emotional reservations about their use of language regarding addressing someone, so if someone calls me something they shouldn't have, I am seemingly unable to get upset about it. (Yes, I've actually tried to care about this after watching an elementary school teacher yell at a child for addressing her as tu)
Now, the tables are turned when I walk into a store. Why doesn't the cashier make an effort to be mildly polite? Why do people act like it's an enormous inconvenience that I've asked them a question? Why won't anyone help me??? These are the thoughts that run through my mind on many shopping adventures. However, to a French person, if a cashier doesn't say "Have a nice day" or smile, they don't notice or care. More over, if they knew how much it bothered me, they would probably think I was ridiculous.
While its easy for me to point out the fact that I expect customer service and they expect more polite formalities than Americans do, it has been almost impossible for me to acknowlede that customer service is not intrinsically more important than pleasant formalities are. As an American, I place much more emphasis on business interaction that they do. I know this. Still, I can't help feeling that I'm right and they're wrong. I know its not true. I swear.
I think this formality on behalf of the French might be what has led many Americans to think that they are arrogant and rude. After watching them for several months, I've decided that they are actually far more polite than we are. Everyone greets each other with "Bonjour, Madame." Never just "Hey". Choir rehearsal always begins 15 minutes late even though everyone is there on time, because every individual must greet every other individual and ask about some aspect of their lives. "How are you feeling today?" "How was your daughter's soccer game?" "How was the train ride over here?" And, unlike Americans, the French answer honestly! Every week at rehearsal, I overhear something to the effect of:
"Ca va, Agathe?" - "Is it going well, Agatha?"
"Non, pas du tout!" - "No, not at all!"
This is usually followed by the reason for such a negative response, such as "I'm tired", "I have a lot of work to do when I get home.", or "This creepy American girl next to me observes me and then writes about it in her blog."
Recently, a teacher at one of my schools asked me, "How do you answer the question 'How are you?" if you're not doing so well. Is it 'I'm bad'?"
"We just say 'I'm okay' if we're bad." I answered.
"Oh," she replied, "but I thought that meant that you're fine, not good or bad."
"It does," I responded. "We don't really say if we're doing badly, we just say we are okay."
Perplexed, she continued, "Well, what if you're actually just okay, but not bad?"
"Well," I thought for a moment, "Then you just say you're well." I could see she was looking at me strangely. "If you're actually doing well, you say you're great! We don't really use 'How are you' as a question so much as a greeting."
"Oh really?" She answered, "So, when you say 'How are you', you're not really asking?"
"Exactly," I responded, feeling a little dehumanized. Of course, had anyone asked me how I felt, I obviously would have responded, "Great!"
Now, the tables are turned when I walk into a store. Why doesn't the cashier make an effort to be mildly polite? Why do people act like it's an enormous inconvenience that I've asked them a question? Why won't anyone help me??? These are the thoughts that run through my mind on many shopping adventures. However, to a French person, if a cashier doesn't say "Have a nice day" or smile, they don't notice or care. More over, if they knew how much it bothered me, they would probably think I was ridiculous.
While its easy for me to point out the fact that I expect customer service and they expect more polite formalities than Americans do, it has been almost impossible for me to acknowlede that customer service is not intrinsically more important than pleasant formalities are. As an American, I place much more emphasis on business interaction that they do. I know this. Still, I can't help feeling that I'm right and they're wrong. I know its not true. I swear.
I think this formality on behalf of the French might be what has led many Americans to think that they are arrogant and rude. After watching them for several months, I've decided that they are actually far more polite than we are. Everyone greets each other with "Bonjour, Madame." Never just "Hey". Choir rehearsal always begins 15 minutes late even though everyone is there on time, because every individual must greet every other individual and ask about some aspect of their lives. "How are you feeling today?" "How was your daughter's soccer game?" "How was the train ride over here?" And, unlike Americans, the French answer honestly! Every week at rehearsal, I overhear something to the effect of:
"Ca va, Agathe?" - "Is it going well, Agatha?"
"Non, pas du tout!" - "No, not at all!"
This is usually followed by the reason for such a negative response, such as "I'm tired", "I have a lot of work to do when I get home.", or "This creepy American girl next to me observes me and then writes about it in her blog."
Recently, a teacher at one of my schools asked me, "How do you answer the question 'How are you?" if you're not doing so well. Is it 'I'm bad'?"
"We just say 'I'm okay' if we're bad." I answered.
"Oh," she replied, "but I thought that meant that you're fine, not good or bad."
"It does," I responded. "We don't really say if we're doing badly, we just say we are okay."
Perplexed, she continued, "Well, what if you're actually just okay, but not bad?"
"Well," I thought for a moment, "Then you just say you're well." I could see she was looking at me strangely. "If you're actually doing well, you say you're great! We don't really use 'How are you' as a question so much as a greeting."
"Oh really?" She answered, "So, when you say 'How are you', you're not really asking?"
"Exactly," I responded, feeling a little dehumanized. Of course, had anyone asked me how I felt, I obviously would have responded, "Great!"
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
My Many Teeth
On Wednesdays I babysit two girls aged 3 and 6. They don't speak English. I watch them for ten hours. Ten hours.
The first time that I met them, the 3 year old - Hanae - said to me, "You have a lot of teeth because you're American". I thought that I had misunderstood her French, since I happen to know that I do not have any extra teeth! I continued to consider it a misunderstanding until, after staring at my mouth, she poked my tooth with her finger, and started putting her hand in my mouth, in that way that adults rarely do.
For the next several days, I glanced at everyone's mouth that I encountered. Surely we all have the same amount of teeth, I pondered, but maybe because I've had braces, more of my teeth are showing when I smile. My hypothesis was proven wrong, however, by the large amount of people with straight teeth that I saw. I would like to make a note that most people would have just chalked this comment up to meaning nothing, since it was a three year old who told me. But, I didn't.
About a week ago, Matt and I were walking around, and saw a woman posing for a photo by the Seine. I noticed immediately that she didn't smile for her photo. Hmmm, did she not smile because people here don't smile for photos, or was she trying to look sultry? It was impossible to tell, until yesterday. Yesterday, when waiting to be let into the classroom where I work, I noticed that there was a class photo on the door, with 22 unsmiling children and one unsmiling teacher. If you think this is normal, go find a classroom photo of any US class. It's not how we do things.
"Did you know that French people don't smile for photos?" I asked Matt when I saw him that night. "Well," I corrected myself, "They smile, but with their mouths closed in an unfriendly way."
"Yeah," He replied, "When I was at the bus stop waiting for Henri-Louis, I heard a Dad tell his child to remember to close his mouth when he smiles."
"Really?!" I exclaimed, "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's rude here."
"But," I continued, "I see people smile with their mouths open all the time! They laugh and smile a lot!"
"Yeah, they laugh and smile when something happens, but to just smile with your teeth when nothing is happening to make you smile, they think it makes you look stupid. It's not that it's rude, it's that it's a sign of stupidity and low-class."
"But I smile with my teeth all the time. All Americans do!"
"Well," Matt smiled (I'm not sure if it was with or without teeth), "Maybe they all think we're stupid."
In other news, next week I will be featured in an article in the elementary school newspaper where I work. The article will be in English with questions that the kids were able to ask me, and my very simple responses. There will also be a photo of me, complete with a big open smile.
The first time that I met them, the 3 year old - Hanae - said to me, "You have a lot of teeth because you're American". I thought that I had misunderstood her French, since I happen to know that I do not have any extra teeth! I continued to consider it a misunderstanding until, after staring at my mouth, she poked my tooth with her finger, and started putting her hand in my mouth, in that way that adults rarely do.
For the next several days, I glanced at everyone's mouth that I encountered. Surely we all have the same amount of teeth, I pondered, but maybe because I've had braces, more of my teeth are showing when I smile. My hypothesis was proven wrong, however, by the large amount of people with straight teeth that I saw. I would like to make a note that most people would have just chalked this comment up to meaning nothing, since it was a three year old who told me. But, I didn't.
About a week ago, Matt and I were walking around, and saw a woman posing for a photo by the Seine. I noticed immediately that she didn't smile for her photo. Hmmm, did she not smile because people here don't smile for photos, or was she trying to look sultry? It was impossible to tell, until yesterday. Yesterday, when waiting to be let into the classroom where I work, I noticed that there was a class photo on the door, with 22 unsmiling children and one unsmiling teacher. If you think this is normal, go find a classroom photo of any US class. It's not how we do things.
"Did you know that French people don't smile for photos?" I asked Matt when I saw him that night. "Well," I corrected myself, "They smile, but with their mouths closed in an unfriendly way."
"Yeah," He replied, "When I was at the bus stop waiting for Henri-Louis, I heard a Dad tell his child to remember to close his mouth when he smiles."
"Really?!" I exclaimed, "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's rude here."
"But," I continued, "I see people smile with their mouths open all the time! They laugh and smile a lot!"
"Yeah, they laugh and smile when something happens, but to just smile with your teeth when nothing is happening to make you smile, they think it makes you look stupid. It's not that it's rude, it's that it's a sign of stupidity and low-class."
"But I smile with my teeth all the time. All Americans do!"
"Well," Matt smiled (I'm not sure if it was with or without teeth), "Maybe they all think we're stupid."
In other news, next week I will be featured in an article in the elementary school newspaper where I work. The article will be in English with questions that the kids were able to ask me, and my very simple responses. There will also be a photo of me, complete with a big open smile.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
People
I went to choir rehearsal early to work on a few things with Lionel the director (he gave me some solos!) I realized in working with him that he is one of the few people that I've met here who treat me like a normal person despite the fact that I have a huge accent and make no sense most of the time. That isn't to say that everyone else is unkind. Actually, most people are nice and very helpful, always looking out for me, and telling me where to go to do certain things. Its just that most people, unconsciously I'm sure, assume I somehow don't know anything about anything just because I can't speak the language and don't know the social system. I think it is completely natural for people to think that. In fact, I didn't even really notice they did that until, when working with Lionel, I noticed that he treated me like a normal person. Perhaps being a musician helps, in that people assume I know nothing until it turns out I can sing and sightread anything despite my French problems. Then they see that I am not completely useless, so maybe I'm actually pretty smart in my own world. Finally, I've noticed that all the people who are unkind or rude to me are unkind or rude to everyone! So every time I think its just because I'm not French, it turns out that they are mean to everyone.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Charcutiers
A Charcutier is someone who works with sausages and prepared meats, in a Charcuterie (the sausage store).
"So, it's like a butcher?" I asked Nicole, the very nice older woman who I sit next to in choir.
"Ah, non," she replied, "a butcher is for meat." Here I must have looked confused, because she continued, "Charcutiers don't work with viande... how do you say viande in English?"
"Beef," I replied.
"Right," she continued, "They don't work with beef. Or any cuts of meat really."
Let me just say, as an American, I was confused.
"So, they work with sausages?" I asked.
"Oui, oui," Nicole and my other neighbor excalimed, looking relieved that they had gotten through to me.
"And chickens too?" I asked. I was fairly sure that Charcutiers did not work with poultery and that there was some other person who did that, but I just wanted to check.
"Non, non," they told me as their faces fell at my misunderstanding, "Poultry is for the Volailler."
"Ah, ok." I said. Of course, the Volailler! I could see that they seemed a little sad that they couldn't make me understand, so I said, "So a Charcuterie sells sausages and it's where the Charcutier works."
"Oui, oui," They smiled at me. I wasn't completely lost, after all!
After the service, I finally got to see what there was in the buffet, and what it is exactly that Charcutiers do. Waiting in line, I envisioned plates full of pepperoni and salami. Apparently, in France they have a lot of "sausages" that aren't what I would particularly have thought of as sausage. On the tables, there were beautiful platters of what seemed to be giant meat casseroles cut up into squares and served with toothpicks. Some of the squares had a garnish, others seemed to glow with a layer of gelatin on the top. I took one meat square and ate it, deciding it was a lump of ham. Not too bad, I thought. I wanted to get more but the crowd was enormous and I couldn't take it, so I retreated into the choir loft to find my coat. When I entered, I saw that the entire choir was there, and there were meat trays there just for us. Great! I thought. I found a piece of marbled meat that looked interesting, so I picked it up and had it halfway to my mouth when I heard someone exclaim, "Ah fromage de tête!" and grab a piece of what I had. Hmmm, fromage de tête ...head cheese, I thought, suspending my piece's movement toward my mouth. I couldn't remember what head cheese was, but I remembered learning about it before and that I didn't think I would like it. Upon further inspection of my hunk of meat, I noticed it was a bunch of tiny other pieces of meat stuck together with jelly. I decided to forgo this, and found a trash can (when no one was looking of course). As it turns out, I was glad I didn't eat it.
When I got home, I thought that maybe there are Charcutiers in the USA, and I just have never heard of them, so I looked up some words in Google translate. In English, Charcutier translates to Butcher, as does Boucher. I was not crazy, we really don't have them. Charcuterie, however, translated to Delicatessen. This may be the case in some old delis where I believe you can purchase loafs of spiced meat and sausage. It is not, however, like most delis where you buy a sandwich with a pickle and potato chips. As for Volailler, that translated to Poulterer. Again, this is something we have (I think) in the USA, however, not something that anyone I know has ever talked about.
In other news: We're singing excerpts for Handel's Messiah in choir at church, and more and more, I like it. I've sung Messiah millions of times before, and I never enjoyed it, but here I am finally enjoying Baroque music. I can't even quite remember why I didn't like it before. Perhaps I wanted more emotional singing and less technically demanding passages. I honestly have no idea. But, I really enjoy the melismas and the intertwining of the voice parts. I certainly never thought that in France I would discover an interest in English Baroque music. But, as the French seem to say every day, "On ne sait jamais" - the equivalent of, "you never know".
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Cimetière du Père-Lachaise
I love cemeteries, something I'm sure most people find creepy, to say the least. But they are usually quiet, peaceful, filled with birds and flowers and trees, and sometimes with lovely views. I like to read the carvings on the stones, read the names, read the dates. I like to imagine the person interred there; their life, what it might have been like, what the world was like for them at the time of their experience, what might they have died from. In one way, I like cemeteries because they are fascinating. In another way, I think maybe its nice for the living to remember the dead, even if only that a stranger read a name and a set of dates, and imagines the rest.
Today we went to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, and I can't wait to go back. I wish we could have spent all day there, but by the time we meandered through the gates it was already late afternoon, with the ever elusive Paris sun sliding further down the horizon. I could have walked in there for hours. We saw the grave of Chopin, and I was happy to see that there were at least 20 different sets of fresh flowers there for him, laid out by his fans within the past few days. That so many people care enough for his music to spend their money on flowers for the grave of someone long gone, well, it was quite touching. I was hoping to see the graves of Maria Callas, Georges Bizet, Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf (and maybe Jim Morrison too, but just because everyone else goes there to see it) but they were all impossible to find. Maps are sold across the street, but, in addition to the fact that I didn't feel like spending my money on a cemetery map, I also feel a little against purchased cemetery maps. Its one thing to visit a cemetery, its another for someone to profit from your expedition. Someone, I might add, who is NOT connected to the cemetery in anyway. Obviously, the cemetery is famous because it is the final resting place of so many famous people, but I would have loved it even if it were full of "unknown" people. The monuments, the statues, the view of the Eiffel Tower, everything was amazing.
While we tried to find our way back to the street, a man stopped us and asked where Jim Morrison's grave was.
"Nous ne savons pas," I said, "Desolee."
He said something like, "Really? Its back the way you came."
"Ah, oui?" I asked, suprised and disappointed that we hadn't seen it.
"Yes," he replied, telling us that it is very big and we must have passed it.
I responded disappointedly, "Ah, no, nous n'avons vu pas," to which he smiled, cocked his head, and reiterated, "Oh you didn't see it?"
"Non," I answered, "Bon chance!"
As he walked away, Matt said to me, "'Nous n'avons pas vu', the 'pas' doesn't go at the end."
"Oh really?" I said, repeating the corrected version to myself.
"In fact," Matt said - something he's been saying quite often since he discovered that in French, one says 'en fait' to mean both 'in fact' and our more common word 'actually' - "You have to indicate that you haven't seen something, so it would be 'Nous ne l'avons pas vu.'"
"Oh, yeah that makes sense." I responded, now repeated the final version of my sentence. Meanwhile, the man was long gone. And this is how we learn French.
Today I want to stay in France forever.
Today we went to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, and I can't wait to go back. I wish we could have spent all day there, but by the time we meandered through the gates it was already late afternoon, with the ever elusive Paris sun sliding further down the horizon. I could have walked in there for hours. We saw the grave of Chopin, and I was happy to see that there were at least 20 different sets of fresh flowers there for him, laid out by his fans within the past few days. That so many people care enough for his music to spend their money on flowers for the grave of someone long gone, well, it was quite touching. I was hoping to see the graves of Maria Callas, Georges Bizet, Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf (and maybe Jim Morrison too, but just because everyone else goes there to see it) but they were all impossible to find. Maps are sold across the street, but, in addition to the fact that I didn't feel like spending my money on a cemetery map, I also feel a little against purchased cemetery maps. Its one thing to visit a cemetery, its another for someone to profit from your expedition. Someone, I might add, who is NOT connected to the cemetery in anyway. Obviously, the cemetery is famous because it is the final resting place of so many famous people, but I would have loved it even if it were full of "unknown" people. The monuments, the statues, the view of the Eiffel Tower, everything was amazing.
While we tried to find our way back to the street, a man stopped us and asked where Jim Morrison's grave was.
"Nous ne savons pas," I said, "Desolee."
He said something like, "Really? Its back the way you came."
"Ah, oui?" I asked, suprised and disappointed that we hadn't seen it.
"Yes," he replied, telling us that it is very big and we must have passed it.
I responded disappointedly, "Ah, no, nous n'avons vu pas," to which he smiled, cocked his head, and reiterated, "Oh you didn't see it?"
"Non," I answered, "Bon chance!"
As he walked away, Matt said to me, "'Nous n'avons pas vu', the 'pas' doesn't go at the end."
"Oh really?" I said, repeating the corrected version to myself.
"In fact," Matt said - something he's been saying quite often since he discovered that in French, one says 'en fait' to mean both 'in fact' and our more common word 'actually' - "You have to indicate that you haven't seen something, so it would be 'Nous ne l'avons pas vu.'"
"Oh, yeah that makes sense." I responded, now repeated the final version of my sentence. Meanwhile, the man was long gone. And this is how we learn French.
Today I want to stay in France forever.
Friday, November 25, 2011
French teacher: (in french) "How do you say 'classe de neige' in English?"
Me: "Classe de neige? As in your upcoming three week field trip where everyone skis? We would just say 'snow class'. We don't have a word for that."
F.T.:"Really? So you don't have another name for it? It's just a literal translation?"
Me: "You mean the trip where the whole class goes on a ski trip for three weeks, you have classes in the morning, and in the afternoon everyone goes skiing, and the town pays for it?"
F.T. "Yes. The snow class."
Me: "Yeah, we definitely don't don't have a word for that."
Later that day, while teaching a "chorale" of 50 six and seven year olds "If you're happy and you know it"...
Me: (In french) Ok, first I'll say a phrase and then you all repeat. Here we go: "If you're happy"
Group: "Eeeef you Appy"
Me: "And"
Group: "Ant"
Me: You know it"
Group: "You now eet"
Me: "Clap your hands!" (clap clap)
Group (mass confusion, lots of clapping)
Me: "Okay, now let's sing"
Group: (singing) "Eeef you APPY an you nnnn itsa, (silence) (Clap Clap!)
Me: "Ok... good...? Now we can add Stomp your feet (stomp stomp)
Group: (Stomp stomp)
Me: "Great! Ok now I'm going to either say clap your hands or stomp your feet, and you have to listen and do what I said!"
Freah Teachers: "Wow! Listen well everyone!"
Me: "Stomp your feet!"
Group: (Clapping, Stomping, nose-picking)
Me: "Umm... good? Ok lets just sing"
French teacher: "Wait, how do you say this in English (Shimmies up and down)?"
Me: "Ummm...well, you could say - "
French Teacher: " --Get funky!" (does dance)
Me: "Yeah (?) Or shake yourself."
French Teacher: (Confused) "Shake youseff?"
Me: "No, no, shake... actually, just say 'shake your body'"
French Teacher: "Ok everyone, shake your body!" (Excitedly shimmies)
... Later that day, I was in the teacher's lounge and I heard the same teacher yell to her class as they lined up in the hall for recess, "Ok everyone, shake your body!" And 26 little six year old French children shimmied off to play outside.
Me: "Classe de neige? As in your upcoming three week field trip where everyone skis? We would just say 'snow class'. We don't have a word for that."
F.T.:"Really? So you don't have another name for it? It's just a literal translation?"
Me: "You mean the trip where the whole class goes on a ski trip for three weeks, you have classes in the morning, and in the afternoon everyone goes skiing, and the town pays for it?"
F.T. "Yes. The snow class."
Me: "Yeah, we definitely don't don't have a word for that."
Later that day, while teaching a "chorale" of 50 six and seven year olds "If you're happy and you know it"...
Me: (In french) Ok, first I'll say a phrase and then you all repeat. Here we go: "If you're happy"
Group: "Eeeef you Appy"
Me: "And"
Group: "Ant"
Me: You know it"
Group: "You now eet"
Me: "Clap your hands!" (clap clap)
Group (mass confusion, lots of clapping)
Me: "Okay, now let's sing"
Group: (singing) "Eeef you APPY an you nnnn itsa, (silence) (Clap Clap!)
Me: "Ok... good...? Now we can add Stomp your feet (stomp stomp)
Group: (Stomp stomp)
Me: "Great! Ok now I'm going to either say clap your hands or stomp your feet, and you have to listen and do what I said!"
Freah Teachers: "Wow! Listen well everyone!"
Me: "Stomp your feet!"
Group: (Clapping, Stomping, nose-picking)
Me: "Umm... good? Ok lets just sing"
French teacher: "Wait, how do you say this in English (Shimmies up and down)?"
Me: "Ummm...well, you could say - "
French Teacher: " --Get funky!" (does dance)
Me: "Yeah (?) Or shake yourself."
French Teacher: (Confused) "Shake youseff?"
Me: "No, no, shake... actually, just say 'shake your body'"
French Teacher: "Ok everyone, shake your body!" (Excitedly shimmies)
... Later that day, I was in the teacher's lounge and I heard the same teacher yell to her class as they lined up in the hall for recess, "Ok everyone, shake your body!" And 26 little six year old French children shimmied off to play outside.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
I feel like Borat
Today is Sunday, October 2, 2011.
Matt and I arrived in France on Tuesday.
Good things:
*We have a place, although temporary, to stay! Matt's supervisor at school and his wife are graciously letting us stay with them until we find an appartment. Their house is beautiful with a garden and chickens. We have our own room to ourselves, and we can use their washer and dryer! We have learned more French from talking to them than we would have if we were staying our own.
*We have job offers! In addition to our work with the schools, we've found other work, which is great!
*I went for a walk today and found a random castle, which reminded me that France is awesome :)
Things that will improve:
*Discouragement
I don't know what I was thinking with this whole "I'm going to move to France and it will be delightful, and I won't be culture shocked at all" thing.
Trying to find an apartment in Paris is... impossible. First, there appear to be less apartments available than people who want an apartment. Second, no one seems to actually want to rent their apartment, because they never return messages. Third, even if they DID return our calls, it would be disastrous because of our french language skills. Hence the way in which I feel like Borat. Someone could show us an apartment, and we would respond by saying "Very nice! How much?"
Next, Paris is painfully beautiful. Everything is exactly how one imagines it, and every street corner has something charming about it. It calls out to me and says "Jen, come and be a part of my history!" But then we can't find an apartment and are even more far away from being a part of everything.
Also, head cheese? I am just not adventurous enough yet, I suppose.
We're starting our jobs in the schools tomorrow. Matt has an orientation, and I have a meeting with my supervisor. I think things will get much better in the next few weeks, once we start working, and have purpose, rather than just waiting for people to call us to come look at their apartments.
Matt and I arrived in France on Tuesday.
Good things:
*We have a place, although temporary, to stay! Matt's supervisor at school and his wife are graciously letting us stay with them until we find an appartment. Their house is beautiful with a garden and chickens. We have our own room to ourselves, and we can use their washer and dryer! We have learned more French from talking to them than we would have if we were staying our own.
*We have job offers! In addition to our work with the schools, we've found other work, which is great!
*I went for a walk today and found a random castle, which reminded me that France is awesome :)
Things that will improve:
*Discouragement
I don't know what I was thinking with this whole "I'm going to move to France and it will be delightful, and I won't be culture shocked at all" thing.
Trying to find an apartment in Paris is... impossible. First, there appear to be less apartments available than people who want an apartment. Second, no one seems to actually want to rent their apartment, because they never return messages. Third, even if they DID return our calls, it would be disastrous because of our french language skills. Hence the way in which I feel like Borat. Someone could show us an apartment, and we would respond by saying "Very nice! How much?"
Next, Paris is painfully beautiful. Everything is exactly how one imagines it, and every street corner has something charming about it. It calls out to me and says "Jen, come and be a part of my history!" But then we can't find an apartment and are even more far away from being a part of everything.
Also, head cheese? I am just not adventurous enough yet, I suppose.
We're starting our jobs in the schools tomorrow. Matt has an orientation, and I have a meeting with my supervisor. I think things will get much better in the next few weeks, once we start working, and have purpose, rather than just waiting for people to call us to come look at their apartments.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mosi Skytrail Ropes Course
Mosi Skytrail Ropes Course
Tampa, Florida, USA
Open Everyday
Monday - Thursday: 10 a.m. – 5 p.m.
Friday and Saturday: 10 a.m. - 8 p.m.
Sundays: 10 a.m. - 6 p.m.
After living down the street from Tampa's Museum of Science and Industry (MOSI) for four years, it was finally time to mosey on over (yes, I really made that joke) when the Skytrail Ropes Course opened last week.
First of all, MOSI is awesome! Why did I wait all this time to go there? Billed as a children's museum, the website makes it seem like if you remember Ronald Reagan, MOSI is not for you. This is not true. Walking around the museum on our way to the Skytrail, I was disappointed in myself for not visiting MOSI earlier in my Tampa tenure. Maybe I'm just a sucker for large dinosaur bones and bicycles that float over open air, but it looked like there was a lot of interesting things to do for people with a few grey hairs.
As for the Sky trail: For $10 per person, you get to climb on stuff and wander around with the apparent danger of falling, minus the risk of death. What could be better?
Waiting in line for my turn to face destiny, I watched people make their way across the swaying bridges. I couldn't help but wonder why some people appeared to hesitate at every step.
"Do you think it's as scary up there as those people are acting like it is?" I asked Matt. I mean, honestly, some people are so ridiculous.
It turns out they were not ridiculous. Despite wearing a belay, walking across a swaying rope that cuts into your all-too-thin sneaker, all while shifting back and forth in the breeze is surprisingly scary. Previously, I was never impressed with the common adventure movie scenario in which the hero faces a rickety rope bridge which invariably breaks. I understood the apparent danger, however I never really knew what it was like to walk across something that I wasn't quite sure I should be walking across. If anything, the ropes course is worth visiting just to gain a greater appreciation of action movies.
The Mosi Skytrail Ropes Course is three stories high, with various types of bridges and ropes and different types of hand-holds, so everyone can test themselves and face their fears. I have to say, after successfully maneuvering most of the bridges in the course, I felt slightly more confidant in my outdoor abilities. This is something I don't gain from my usual activities of movie-watching and eating. For ten dollars and an hour of your time, it's a great break from the usual weekly activities. I would definitely go again!
Tampa, Florida, USA
Open Everyday
Monday - Thursday: 10 a.m. – 5 p.m.
Friday and Saturday: 10 a.m. - 8 p.m.
Sundays: 10 a.m. - 6 p.m.
After living down the street from Tampa's Museum of Science and Industry (MOSI) for four years, it was finally time to mosey on over (yes, I really made that joke) when the Skytrail Ropes Course opened last week.
First of all, MOSI is awesome! Why did I wait all this time to go there? Billed as a children's museum, the website makes it seem like if you remember Ronald Reagan, MOSI is not for you. This is not true. Walking around the museum on our way to the Skytrail, I was disappointed in myself for not visiting MOSI earlier in my Tampa tenure. Maybe I'm just a sucker for large dinosaur bones and bicycles that float over open air, but it looked like there was a lot of interesting things to do for people with a few grey hairs.
As for the Sky trail: For $10 per person, you get to climb on stuff and wander around with the apparent danger of falling, minus the risk of death. What could be better?
Waiting in line for my turn to face destiny, I watched people make their way across the swaying bridges. I couldn't help but wonder why some people appeared to hesitate at every step.
"Do you think it's as scary up there as those people are acting like it is?" I asked Matt. I mean, honestly, some people are so ridiculous.
It turns out they were not ridiculous. Despite wearing a belay, walking across a swaying rope that cuts into your all-too-thin sneaker, all while shifting back and forth in the breeze is surprisingly scary. Previously, I was never impressed with the common adventure movie scenario in which the hero faces a rickety rope bridge which invariably breaks. I understood the apparent danger, however I never really knew what it was like to walk across something that I wasn't quite sure I should be walking across. If anything, the ropes course is worth visiting just to gain a greater appreciation of action movies.
The Mosi Skytrail Ropes Course is three stories high, with various types of bridges and ropes and different types of hand-holds, so everyone can test themselves and face their fears. I have to say, after successfully maneuvering most of the bridges in the course, I felt slightly more confidant in my outdoor abilities. This is something I don't gain from my usual activities of movie-watching and eating. For ten dollars and an hour of your time, it's a great break from the usual weekly activities. I would definitely go again!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
New things
Over the course of the next two months, I will be:
1. Packing up my home in Tampa and selling almost everything I own
2. Quitting my job
3. Driving my 7 year old Cavalier 1,400 miles from Tampa to my hometown in Massachusetts
4. Getting married
5. Embarking on a trip to every New England state (as requested by my fiance)
6. Moving to France
7. Starting a new job outside of Paris as a French Language Assistant
In light of all of this, I thought, "Hey, why not start a blog? I can record everything I'm doing, and next time I decide to have an adventure and I start getting nervous, I can remember that I lived through this one!"
When I told Matt, my fiance, that I decided to write a blog, he was very supportive, as always.
"Well, what will you blog about?"
"Travel. It's going to be a travel blog." I answered without pause.
A few days later we were sitting around on the couch, one of my favorite activities.
"Maybe it won't be a travel blog, I don't really go anywhere." I declared.
Matt laughed.
"I mean, I want to write a travel blog," I continued, "but I don't want to write reviews of beaches and restaurants. 'This restaurant was good, this beach was bad.' I want to talk about my experiences with the places, and how I felt, and how amazing it was to be there, or see something, or eat somewhere."
"Okay, so do that." He may or may not have said.
"Well, but then it won't be a true travel blog."
"You can do what you want. You always get extra sensitive about new things." He told me while watching soccer.
It was true. What if I write a bad blog? What if it's a mistake to quit my job and move to France? What if my car breaks down driving up the coast of the US? What if I spill red wine on my wedding dress? What if I can't find an apartment in France? What if I start my new job, and I don't understand anything that's happening around me?
These are the questions that run through my mind all day, everyday. And yet I continue to live. Jenmaggeddon has not yet occured.
So I've decided to tackle one more new thing: writing a blog. It might be about travel. As Matt may or may not have said, "It's your blog, write what you want."
So that's what I'm doing.
1. Packing up my home in Tampa and selling almost everything I own
2. Quitting my job
3. Driving my 7 year old Cavalier 1,400 miles from Tampa to my hometown in Massachusetts
4. Getting married
5. Embarking on a trip to every New England state (as requested by my fiance)
6. Moving to France
7. Starting a new job outside of Paris as a French Language Assistant
In light of all of this, I thought, "Hey, why not start a blog? I can record everything I'm doing, and next time I decide to have an adventure and I start getting nervous, I can remember that I lived through this one!"
When I told Matt, my fiance, that I decided to write a blog, he was very supportive, as always.
"Well, what will you blog about?"
"Travel. It's going to be a travel blog." I answered without pause.
A few days later we were sitting around on the couch, one of my favorite activities.
"Maybe it won't be a travel blog, I don't really go anywhere." I declared.
Matt laughed.
"I mean, I want to write a travel blog," I continued, "but I don't want to write reviews of beaches and restaurants. 'This restaurant was good, this beach was bad.' I want to talk about my experiences with the places, and how I felt, and how amazing it was to be there, or see something, or eat somewhere."
"Okay, so do that." He may or may not have said.
"Well, but then it won't be a true travel blog."
"You can do what you want. You always get extra sensitive about new things." He told me while watching soccer.
It was true. What if I write a bad blog? What if it's a mistake to quit my job and move to France? What if my car breaks down driving up the coast of the US? What if I spill red wine on my wedding dress? What if I can't find an apartment in France? What if I start my new job, and I don't understand anything that's happening around me?
These are the questions that run through my mind all day, everyday. And yet I continue to live. Jenmaggeddon has not yet occured.
So I've decided to tackle one more new thing: writing a blog. It might be about travel. As Matt may or may not have said, "It's your blog, write what you want."
So that's what I'm doing.
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